Revenge of the Cube Dweller by Joanne Fox Phillips

and the condo in Cayman and all the contents, I want sold. I’m not going to burn up money maintaining those properties in a down market. Who knows when this recession will turn around?”
    “That’s shortsighted, Tanzie. Selling in this market is lunacy; everything’s under water!” Winstonshouted. This was unusual for him, and I knew I had his attention.
    “You asked me what I wanted and that’s what I want.”
    Winston collected himself and raised his eyebrows while he shook his head. Silence and then more silence while he stared at the table in disbelief. He then raised his head. “Do it, Rick. Just do it.”
    Now Winston was the one getting up to leave.
    “Just one more thing, Mr. Lewis,” Stu said. “We haven’t agreed on who should take the dog, Rocky.”
    Winston and I looked at each other. “He’s my dog, Tanzie. You gave him to me for Christmas. Doesn’t that mean he’s mine?” Winston looked at Rick and then Stu.
    “I suppose so, Mr. Lewis,” Stu answered. “It would appear that the dog would be considered your separate property, but my understanding is that he is currently living with Mrs. Lewis.”
    “Well, he can continue to until the house sells, and then he’ll come with me. No sense making him live in an apartment downtown.”
    “Winston, can’t we share him? He spends more time with me … I trained him. You can take him hunting, but—”
    “I’ve had enough for one day! You’re selling our assets in the worst market since ’29. A ridiculous move, in my opinion. Rocky is my dog. End of story, Tanzie.”
    Winston made his exit, and Rick gathered his papersand hurried after him. I heard the elevator ding and stared at Stu, who was making himself look useful by poring over the proxy statement he had no ability to comprehend. Winston was right about selling in a down market, but it was the only way I had left to hurt him. I was the suicide bomber of our combined wealth. I took a cigarette out of my purse and began to light up.
    “Mrs. Lewis, I’m afraid there’s no smoking allowed.”
    I took a drag and stubbed it out on the settlement folder left behind by Rick. I gathered my things and left without another word.
    During my divorce proceedings, the women at the club suggested I invest in myself: A month at La Costa, a facelift, strategic lipo, a little nip and tuck. Several of my friends had used a particular plastic surgeon in Atlanta who for $40K would restore a natural and youthful appearance to your face. The fee included private nursing at a five-star hotel in which you could stay until your scars looked more like an automobile accident than vanity. Tempting as that was, I was nervous about being off the gravy train of a steady and high income. Texas does not provide for alimony, so the settlement was it for me, and I didn’t want to risk depleting my savings too quickly.
    There is no way with my entry-level salary at Bishop that I will be flying to Atlanta or San Diego anytime soon. But maybe, if I play my cards right with this fraud and get a promotion, I can feel better about putting a dent in the portfolio—only, of course,
after
I write NYU a check for Lulu’s tuition.
    When I return to my floor, the three are still behind closeddoors, so I am once again relegated to sitting tight for an indefinite period, until I notice the red light on my phone indicating I have a message. It is from my friend Beth, a recipient of one of those $40K procedures. Her message says she has been trying to reach me all morning on my cell but it just goes to voice mail, and she sounds frustrated. She says she’s sorry to call me at work and asks me to call her right away. I can tell by her voice that this isn’t a social call. I fish in my purse and plug my dead phone into the charger before calling her back on the office line, ignoring potential exposure to my cube neighbors. I reach Beth and she is in her car driving on the freeway.
    “I have terrible news, Tanzie,” she says.
    “Oh